


all the love we left behind

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 3x18 Reunion, Angst, Denial, Isabella Reveal, M/M, Regret, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 08:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10941042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: “We didn’t think things would get quite so out of hand,” the blonde woman says.  “Had we known in advance -- well, let’s just say we wanted to keep an eye on things, not throw a wrench into the works.”“Who was the spy?”  The voice is so deep and raspy that his throat aches with the effort of speaking.





	all the love we left behind

**Author's Note:**

> LOL fucking stop me. My emotions are… destroyed. I’ve been watching the reunion scene on repeat nonstop.
> 
> Angst is my lifeblood. Please do enjoy.  
> ~R  
> (Notes with show spoilers below.)

“We didn’t think things would get quite so out of hand,” the blonde woman says, tone hinting at an apology he surmises she is too prideful to state outright. “Had we known in advance -- well, let’s just say we wanted to keep an eye on things, not throw a wrench into the works.”

The Riddler can’t make head or tails of what she’s implying, and he clenches his hands into fists. The handcuffs bite into his wrists.

He waits, but she doesn’t elaborate, just glances out the window of the towncar and sighs quietly. The Riddler releases a breath. His drive to ask is burning in his chest, but he will not give in -- she’ll have to say something eventually.

“We certainly never meant to drive you to-- this,” the woman continues finally, gesturing dismissively at the Riddler’s outfit. “This city thrives on order, and your actions lately have caused quite the ripple effect among Gotham’s underworld. There was a time when the criminal element of Gotham and those on top were able to _help_ each other. Together, we kept this city prosperous and profitable.”

The Riddler settles back in his seat, irritated by the aside. But the woman has fallen silent again, her pensive gaze focused on the empty streets outside. The Riddler finds his lips burning, begging him to ask the question, and though he fights it for a time, he knows the outcome is inevitable: the question spills from his tongue with customary rapidity: “What did you mean by ‘keep an eye on things’?”

The woman purses her lips. “We wished to plant a spy close to Mayor Cobblepot, so we could determine if he was trustworthy enough to bring into our plans.”

A cold rush passes over the Riddler. He swallows harshly, throat constricting unexpectedly.

“ _Who was the spy_?” The voice is so deep and raspy that his throat aches with the effort of speaking. He feels pressure behind his eyelids, and compulsively reaches up to rub his eyes before remembering the handcuffs.

The woman looks away from his distress, politely aloof. “I assume you’re familiar with Hugo Strange?”

“Of course,” he growls. “I was in Arkham -- I saw what he did.”

The woman tilts her head in acknowledgement. “Do you know what his experiments were about?”

“The -- monsters,” he says, voice breaking mid-sentence. He swallows again, reflexively.

“That’s right,” she says. “He was performing genetic and psychological experiments on the residents of Indian Hill. And some others.”

“The spy was,” he says, grimacing in anticipation, “one of his creations.”

“Yes,” she says simply, falling silent yet again.

He grinds his teeth as he waits.

She twists her lip and turns back toward him, her eyes unreadable and flat in the car’s dark interior. “I can’t confess to any particular affection for our dearly departed mayor, but I do find it troubling that you’ve left Barbara Kean in charge -- that woman doesn’t have near the same experience as Cobblepot had, and twice the greed. She’ll bleed her pledges dry and in the end, they will turn on her,” she says with grim certainty.

“I don’t care,” he says icily. “She can do whatever she wants.”

The woman leans toward him, self-assured despite the fact that he could probably overpower her. “No, she can’t,” the woman enunciates. “That’s what _we_ are for.”

He narrows his eyes. “...What are you planning to do to her?” He’s not sure if he’s concerned for her well being or not; but if the Court are going to strike, he wants to know _how_.

“Not just her,” the blonde woman says, gaze distant and fiery. “This city is dying, bursting open like a rotten peach and spewing filth and disorder in the streets. The whole city must be cleansed and born anew.”

“That’s all very well and good,” he says after a pause, voice purposefully flippant, “but _what about the spy_?”

She looks at him, face impassive. A panicked thought strikes him, twisting his gut with paranoia. “It wasn’t -- _me_ , was it? Something Strange did to me?”

She smiles faintly at that, disingenuously. “No, no, certainly not.”

“Then what?” he snarls, aggravated, nails digging crescent moon cuts into his own palms.

The woman turns away from him yet again, eyes focused on the city lights outside. “Isabella was Kristen Kringle.”

He stares at her, mouth open, for endless moments. Then a strange grin takes hold of him, and he bares his bright white teeth at her. “No,” he says, shaking his head a little. “No.”

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Hm,” she hums to herself, “that’s not promising.”

He stares at her, smile fading, waiting for the punchline.

She begins, brusquely: “When the GCPD arrested you, they exhumed Kristen Kringle’s body. Her parents, who live out of town, wanted her cremated -- understandable,” she adds in an aside, “a considerable amount of time had passed, even in winter. So we sent them a lovely urn of wood-ash, and brought the body back to one of our facilities.

“There, we used what Strange learned to bring her back, without her memories of her previous life. We gave her a new name, a new past, gave her books to read to build a new personality. We made sure to give her plenty of tragic romance novels, so she wouldn’t find your past actions quite as intimidating. And we gave her an appreciation of wordplay, of course, so that she would be certain to catch your attention.”

‘No,’ Edward tries to say, but it catches in his throat. He takes in a shuddering breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is so breathy as to be nearly inaudible. “No, you’re lying.”

“I’m not lying, Mr. Nygma,” the woman says. “But you can certainly believe that if you wish. It won’t change anything now,” she adds.

“She was--”

“An invention, Mr. Nygma, nothing more.”

Edward stares, heart thudding in his chest.

“Of course, we hadn’t counted on Cobblepot being in love with you,” the woman continues blithely. “By the time I was apprised of the situation, you would have noticed if she’d gone missing. So we were forced to carry on, despite the fact that our plan grossly backfired. You would know about backfiring plans, wouldn’t you?” she adds uncharitably, directing a glance to his handcuffed wrists. Edward doesn’t respond, and she continues. “So instead, he killed her, and months of preparation were washed down the drain. Then you killed him and sent the city into chaos.” She shakes her head. “At least Aubrey James was reinstated. That was one less _problem_ to deal with.”

Edward swallows against the painful lump in his throat. He blinks, and his eyes are burning with unshed tears.

“Time for the bag, now, I think? We’re getting too close to our destination.” The woman smiles thinly as she slips the bag over his head, her eyes meeting his with strange intentness. “Know that, whatever happens to you, Mr. Nygma, we’re working for Gotham’s best interests.”

And darkness surrounds him.

~

His metal cage is silent. He believes the building is underground, which is fitting, he thinks, for a man who feels entombed.

Isabella … an invention.

Oswald … dead, by his hand.

The betrayal, Edward insists, still happened. Oswald hadn’t known Isabella was an invention. He had believed she was real, and he had killed her anyway, and lied to Edward, and misled Edward. The revelation shouldn’t change anything.

And yet.

And yet…

He is overwhelmed by a wave of futility, of exhaustion.

Oswald is dead, and for what?

For a woman who had never existed at all?

And Edward is … _alone_.

.

…

…..

The sob catches him off-guard, wracking his body with its force. He looks down at his hands, surprised to find them blurry, and realizes that his glasses lens are covered in tears.

He hasn’t yet cried for Oswald. Every time he thought he’d been going to, he’d taken one of the pills, or switched his focus, or distracted himself -- no point crying over what he’s done. No one can change that now.

And suddenly Edward thinks -- what if he hadn’t thrown Oswald’s body in the harbor? Would they have been able to bring him back? If he bribed them, convinced them, somehow, could they have--

But no; there was no point bringing Oswald back without his _memories_ , his _personality_. Without those, Oswald was nothing.

Of course, Kristen-Isabella’s new personality had been appealing.

Or had it?

Edward tries to picture it: Oswald, his best friend, this time with an enjoyment of wordplay, with that blithely appreciative look Isabella had always had, with unquestioning support of everything Edward does and--

_It’s horrible_.

The sobs wrack his narrow frame as he even imagines it: Oswald, the man who’d always inspired him, the man who guided him on his journey, _erased_ by some mindless adoring shadow of his former self. It’s horrifying, more haunting than the thought that Edward will never see him again.

It isn’t Oswald’s _face_ he needs; it’s his brilliant mind, his capricious moods, his begrudging acceptance of Edward’s riddles. The fact that he was willing to _compromise_ his interests for Ed’s, despite the many differences between them.

Edward drops to his knees, the impact sending agonizing pain jolting through him. He pulls his glasses off with his left hand and tucks his face into the cradle of his right arm.

And he weeps.

~

An interminable time later, he hears a voice echoing down the crypt-like walkway.

“Who do you think you are?”

Edward watches in stunned disbelief as the man -- the achingly, heartbreakingly familiar man -- is escorted by the man in the mask.

He’s thrown into the cage next to Edward, and the man grips the bars as he spits out: “My name is Oswald Cobblepot -- you _cannot_ do this to me -- I demand to speak to the person in charge!”

Edward’s mouth opens as the guard walks briskly away.

“Oswald,” he says, heart in his throat.

The man freezes, shoulders tensed. Edward watches with hungry eyes as the man turns, so slowly, casting his face first in profile, and then in glorious plays of light and shadow, and Edward knows without a single doubt in his mind: it’s him.

The air fills his lungs in a dizzying rush, and he goes lightheaded.

It’s Oswald.

How is he -- how did they --

“ _You’re alive_?”

Is this him? Or is this a cruel trick by the Court? Did they find his body? _How_?

But Oswald doesn’t say a word, just stares at him with that foreign look in his eye, approaching silently.

Edward swallows nervously, eyes fixated on the man.

Oswald stares back, expression … _indescribable_.

He remembers? So … he’s _real_ , isn’t he?

Oswald lunges, hand outstretched, and half a heartbeat too late, Edward stumbles back from him. His heart is racing in his throat as he stares at Oswald’s crazed eyes, desperately reaching hand, bared teeth.

Oswald remembers.

This is truly him.

And he … _hates_ Edward.

Edward watches with a quiet kind of terror as Oswald pulls back and wraps his fingers around the bars of the cage. After all this … after all they’ve been through …

This loss seems worse, by magnitudes worse, than the loss of Kristen -- Isabella -- _Kristen_. This friendship is something they made together, poured their hearts and time into, and together, they have managed to destroy it.

Oswald stares at him from between the bars, eyes flat and empty like marbles.

**Author's Note:**

> OK I totally think the Isabella reveal is going to happen during the finale -- and if/when it does I am going to be so excited, but I wanted to write the reveal happening when Ed still thinks Oswald is dead, that way he can be overwhelmed by the futility of it all and the angst of having killed his best friend for what was --essentially-- a non-entity. Anyway. <3  
> ~R


End file.
